My Friends Never Die
by waterpeaches
Summary: The cover of that book had been haunting Wilson Percvial Higgsbury for what felt like an eternity. But what he doesn't know is that the book holds much more than strange whispers, it holds a world, a game. {Based off the story of Don't starve} HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my Nanowrimo story, Inhave been working very hard on this I would love to share it with you all! This summer I recently got interested in don't starve and the plot. I instantly fell in love with Wilson and I started to read other don't starve fics before writing this one. This is my interpretation on the story, it does contain most of the main plot in the game but I've tweaked it and added my own ideas. Plus, I have added a great gastby Easter egg if anyone can find it ;).**

 **I hope you enjoy! ~Moonmilk**

1889

The brown doors were ajar. 9 year old Wilson Percival Higgsbury took in the scent. Fresh paper, ink, cheap perfume. His parents let him go, while his brother Albert Higgsbury kept his hands around his father's legs.

Wilson was free for the week. Free for a whole 5 hours. His father made his way to his study desk for literature, mummy Higgsbury took Albert to a nearby café, for he was bored with Wilson and his father's 'studies'.

The young boy climbed latter after latter, examining each section, every scientific genre. His father was chuckling at his gasps and giggles while reading the titles regarding chemistry and physics. Wilson's interest in science was strong, he told his father he wishes to discover new elements, and theories in general.

His father continued his studies in literature, leaving his son with his own studies. Mr Higgsbury was a full supporter, buying Wilson several beakers for Christmas, and a few books for his room, which he read the daily science articles each and every night when going to bed.

5 hours past, Wilson reached the last part of the science section, making sure he organized every section he made a mess of in the past ones. His small pale fingers trailed against the spines. 'Space theories, NEWEST DISCOVERIES: Neon and Xenon, Richard Willstätter's **cocaine** molecule, Purine Synthesis.' Read this, read that.

Wilson stopped, there was a whisper. Why would the librarian be quieting him down, he's never loud in this place, and according to him, he and the librarian get along quite well. The whispers intensified, causing him to look at the last book on the shelf. It was a strange hue of purple and maize, and why were the whispers coming from it in the first place?

Higgsbury reached for the book, the whispers were even louder than before. Wilson trembled slightly, his thumb rubbed the cover of the book. It was beautiful, the designs engraved looked like they were hand crafted, truly the most magnificent cover Wilson has ever laid eyes on.

It had no title. Strange. Wilson rubbed his fingers against the thick and slightly torn pages, smudged with a strange yellow hue, maybe coffee? It was slightly dirty now that he looked at it more closely. His thumb was right under the cover, ready to open, then he heard a call.

"Wilson? Time to head home, mother must be waiting."

"Y-yes father!" Wilson could still hear the faint whispers of the book, they slowly faded away as he put it back in its place. Mr Higgsbury took his hand and led him out the large library doors, after saying goodbye to Miss Wickerbottom.

...

"Mother?" Wilson asked while gripping the blankets on his bed. "Do you think...,"

"What is it darling?" Mrs Higgsbury ruffled her son's hair and stroked her fingers across his puffy pale cheeks.

"D-do you think, that magic could be connected to science?" He let out. Mrs Higgsbury's lips tugged upward, she chuckled softly and kissed his forehead.

"Is that your new obsession? Magic, my darling?"

"Well, it is certainly enjoyable. I..just had a mere thought mother, that is all."

"Magic is for wee babes! Scoundrels!" Albert interrupted from the side of the room, the younger brother jumped off his bed and rushed to his mother.

"Now Albert, Wilson is certainly coming up with a new theory. And magic is not for babes, nor the sick or twisted. I think that magic and science are a form of art." She winked at Wilson, who giggled in return.

Albert wanted to make another statement, but was interrupted by his mothers plea to get in bed. She kissed Wilson one last time, then tucked Albert in, doing the same.

Wilson could still remember the whispers he heard that day, coming from the violet book. They weren't even words, just gibberish utterances. Wilson couldn't detect any language, for he has studied the basic fundamentals of Latin, French, German, Arabic, and some Asian languages. None seemed to match with anything in his mere studies.

But language was out of the question, Wilson never really found an interest in language any way. The real question was why? The whispers sent chills down his spine, waves of bile in his stomach. Was it a hallucination? Was this library possessed, what if Wickerbottom is not who she really is? Wilson shivered, he turned and saw his brother facing the window, his back rising up and down. Very fast.

Albert was always a little trickster. Always rearing to go. Pretending to drop beakers, messing around with Wilson's powders and substances, it was truly unruly and aggravating. Wilson hardly ever sees Albert treat him with respect, just a little tease here and there. He was mostly outside the whole day, practicing croquet or football with his boarding school friends. Wilson spent the day mixing particles, making a mess.

His mind grew weak and the thoughts of the whispers slowly wore away. His eyes fluttered shut and a day of learning ended, tomorrow he would have to take care of his little brother once again, while mummy and father were out.

...

1901

The boat ride was more pleasant than he thought. His knuckles turned ivory when clutching the heavy leather suit case. It swung back and forth as he exited the boat. The young man took in the scent. Ellis Island, land of coal, business...opportunity.

"You're Mr William Carter?"

William adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Yes, yes I am sir."

"I'm sure it was a long trip ay? I'm tellin ya London ain't nothing like ol New York here." William was fascinated by his servants posture, accent and choice of clothing. He was a bit over weight, pale, very nice top hat though. "Now, where would you like to be heading to? I don't have all day pal, cab or not?"

"Yes!" William raised his voice while pushing his frames up against his broad nose. "Yes a cab would be marvelous, thank you! ...Bayard street please." The man called him in. The cab ride was the same as London's, the clop of the horses hoof made William miss his home already, he missed his brother Jack, his nieces Wendy and Abigail. He couldn't wait to write to them once he finds his flat.

...

"Do you have the dough?" The gruff voice made William flinch slightly. The British native lifted his head, beads of sweat covered his brow and forehead.

"Not exactly." He mumbled. Without the soft carrying words a man could give to another, he was met with a hand to the chin, nails digging into his skin.

"Mr Carter, you understand this is not boarding school where you sit down for your tea and crumpets, apologize for not paying and CALLING IT A DAY!" His boss' grip was tighter. William didn't take his eyes off of George T. Witherstone. Smudges of saliva from the yelling landed on his circular glasses.

"Mr Witherstone, I am gathering the most I can. I need my necessities, my house, my nutrients. I promise you this show and my other career will give me enough for the full payment."

George leaned forward and growled in his ear. "It sure as hell better be a good one. They're dying for something new."

"Mr Withestone, with your objects of entertainment I will surely succeed tonight."

George let go and pushed William towards the door. Carter stumbled and fixed his olive green suit and jacket. He looked up at his boss again, who crossed his arms in dismay, teeth almost showing. Carter only nodded slowly and carefully before taking off and walking into the small theatre, where his objects of magic awaited before him.

...

"A monstrosity!" "A fraud!" "Unforgivable Brit!" "Jackass!" Were some of the words George spat at him before William made his departure out of Ellis island.

Carter clenched his hands tight, his ticket in his left crinkled slightly. His lip began to quiver once he heard the train whistle begin to blow. He turned to look one more time at his city of certain potential.

He took a seat across from a young mother with her screaming child. The conductor announced the departure from NYC to San Francisco. The words gave William Carter a little hope, that maybe he could manage to keep his dream alive there.

He reached into his suit case and pulled out a newspaper that he bought before his trip. August 6 1904, New York Times. Carter really couldn't believe that he survived at least 3 years in that city, would San Francisco be worse? Would he die of the heat? He certainly wasn't used to that type of weather. He's pretty sure none of his British clothing would match well with its weather.

The train started, the mother calmed her child down, William crinkled the paper and shoved it in his suitcase. A new journey began, a new opportunity. William was sure that his brother Jack would love to hear his new stories in this insanely scorching hot land. He would also plan to take pictures as well, assuming his oldest niece Abigail would enjoy the scenery.

The buildings were shrinking, the tracks blurring. Carter could have sworn he heard the voice of George T. Witherstone getting smaller and smaller.

...

A siren pierces William's ears, he exhales throughly and gets himself off the train's floor. How did this happen, what did happen? Carter rubbed his eyes, they started to sting once he noticed here were cuts on his hands, blood trailed around his eyes. His suitcase stayed connected to his now pale, clammy hand. The woman and her child were not there, the siren still blared on.

William came to a conclusion that he was the only man aboard, at least on this train cart. He found his way out and stumbled into the blinding light that was the sun of nearby San Fransisco.

Moans, groans and cries were heard from his left. Stretchers lined up, each carrying a body as they were being loaded into several ambulances. Carter turned to the train, then a large circus cart that seemed to be the reason all of these people were injured.

William stared at the gravel for a moment, unseen. His mind began to race, his teeth mounded together, he heard a creak noise in his mouth. Sweat began to pour down his face, his lips trembled. Back and down, back and down, he turned from ground to ambulance, tragedy to gravel, and vice versa.

He walked closer to the wrecked abandoned circus cart and rested a hand against the chipped red plaster to catch his breath. He stumbled and his hands hit the dry ground, a cry erupted from his mouth, but slowly silenced it to cover up.

He felt worthless, defeated. William just needed to disappear. Why oh why did he chase after this dream of performance, he should have listened to his late mother and moved on with another choice. He told himself he wouldn't end up this way. He would be the magnificent William! Or the wondrous William! Entertaining ladies, gentlemen, and children galore!

With a turn of the heel, William ran. He ran like he never did before, not like he was departing to Ellis Island, not like he was departing from George Witherstone, he was ruining because he knew this was the end of his life.

This was the end of the great William Carter.

...

1906

"And you have a what demeanor?"

"Curious." His hazel eyes crinkled as they gripped the violet book.

"Yes and you have a keen interest in the mysteries of the universe?"

The figure smiled. "Sir, me and my very curious demeanor wish to show you and the whole United States of America something they would awe about for years to come. The universe." He holds up the book with pale slender fingers. "My universe,"

"Well...you seem like a good improvement to our cult. Might I have a name sir?"

"A...name?"

"Yes, a name, you have a stage name correct?"

"Yes you're right you're correct. I am Maxwell. Maxwell the great."

...

Black tendrils whirled around him, his hands floating, skimming through the wisps, creating forms and shapes. Awing the audience. He twirled his wrist at the audience and black silvery sparkles flew in the crowd. Kids rushed from their seats to catch the little flecks of shimmer, getting it all over their clothes.

Maxwell grinned. It was time, for the final act of the day. He was sure he could pull this one off without his assistant. She worked too hard, he needed to give her a day off. His finger pads skimmed across two pages, back and forth back and forth, almost pizzicato.

The audience shushed, waiting to see the magic about to happen. Maxwell plunged his hand inside he book, pulled it out, and then swirls, fireworks and heaps of black patterns filled the theatre. The crowd went wild, just as Maxwell suspected. He took a bow, the show for the night was over.

Maxwell made his way backstage to find a man, who sat him down and gave him a wet washcloth. "Good work today sir. Better than last week's, keep it up." Maxwell only hummed and continued to squeeze the towel, drips falling down his nose and cheeks. He could tell the male assistant left his dressing room, the sharp pattering of his feet got quieter and quieter.

He sat there for a while, eyes closed and chest slowly deflating, inflating. Maxwell raised a brow once he heard the door open slowly and carefully. The short and subtle footsteps were like music to his ears. He smiled and kept his eyes closed until the figure reached him.

Small pecks were peppered on his eyelids, he couldn't help but chuckle. He lifted his lids up and put the cloth on a small desk, next to his book. The dark haired woman gleamed and grinned. Maxwell slowly and carefully put his hands around her waist, and slowly brought his lips to hers.

"Mm.." The woman cut off the kiss and moved to the desk, avoiding the book and washcloth. Her delicate fingers snatched a pair of round glasses. She approached Maxwell again, who continued to put his hands around her. She raised an arm and ruffled his dark hair, causing it to lighten up a bit, there was always light caramel locks under his heap of black on top. It was now an ebony and brown mess. She kissed him again and slowly slid his glasses back on.

Maxwell chuckled slightly and stroked her face. "Mr Carter, wonderful job."

"Look, I'm sorry-,"

"Don't be." She whispered kissing him again. "You're a true gentlemen for giving me that day off."

"I just thought some of my acts were...a bit dangerous for a woman, dear Charlie."

Charlie paused. "Dangerous? Will what makes you think this book could hurt me? It is controlled, controlled by you...right?"

Maxwell paused and but his lip. He brought his arm back and slicked his hair back to black. "I'm sorry I haven't told you, it's just been...a bit difficult..with the magic properties this week."

Charlie scoffed. "Back to Maxie again? Look, if you're having trouble, let's call it off. I'm sure you can take a short holiday too, spend all that cash, get yourself a nice dinner,"

"No, it's still going to go on next week. The sensation of dark insanity was there, slightly. But I'm sure I can handle it next week. I'm not taking a break."

She pressed a hand over his heart. "I'll do it with you. But, Maxie if it hurts, or if it somehow gives you a hard time then we need a break. Assure that I'm right?"

Maxwell took off his old glasses and set them back on the desk. He scratched the back of his neck while staring at the book. He was surely at stake, one wrong move and these shadows would turn fully against him. Or even worse, send him into an eternal hell, along with Charlie. He approached his female assistant and ghosted a hand over her cheeks and her short spiked black locks. His hand wandered to the white flower on her head, he took it out, kissed it, then the spot it stayed in and put it back. "You're right. I don't want to lose you, Charlie. Not ever, darling."

Charlie smirked. Her red painted lips sent Maxwell's heart flying. She took his hand and nodded, mouthing a reassuring ok. He nodded in return and pecked her cheek, then slowly continued to slick his hair until it returned to a midnight.

"Now, about that nice dinner,"

She broke out in a smile again and he linked his arm with hers.

...

Thursday night was unusually chilly for an April evening in San Francisco, it thunder stormed that morning. Charlie felt dismayed. Her brown heels clicked against the slippery concrete as she huddled underneath her magenta coat, trying to pull the fur up against her cheeks and ears.

Her dry frozen hands cranked the apartment lobby door open. Once she was in she let it go to find her lover's room. Charlie began to climb the stairs frantically, her wet heels almost made her slip. Maxwell had not been answering her calls, she worried all day for him and finally she had the chance to actually make it to his flat.

A slight rumble of thunder made it's way through the large lobby windows, Charlie huffed as she climbed to the highest floor and finally reached his room. She took off her magenta hat and raised a knuckle, ready to knock. She did, but stopped suddenly, her breathing got a tad bit rapid.

"Maxie, Maxie I'm here! It's Charlie! You weren't answering my calls, I'm worried. Please let me in?" She stopped for a moment and heard a faint pounding noise. He was in there alright. She knocked harder. "William Carter let me in this instant! I have important matters to discuss!"

The banging in his room stopped, then started again and got quieter. This was never a thing Charlie would have ever thought of doing. She turned the golden knob, surprisingly it was unlocked. She looked in, Maxwell's apartment was slightly dirty than before, some things were scattered. She noticed a silent film rolled, depicting himself before arriving in San Francisco, doing amateur magic acts. Charlie ran over and clicked it off and continued to the next door, his bedroom.

Charlie could now hear the banging noise, loud like WW1, then as soft as ever. Then a grunt, then slightly manic muttering. Charlie's breath quickened, she pressed her ruby lips in a thin line and raised her sharp nails to the door handle. Whatever was going on in there, Charlie knew she would have some feeling of bewilderment. And she did. She took a chance and swung the door open, nothing. Maxwell, who hid himself in a nearby paining shivered, he tried to stay still, but his shimmering black hand caused him to shake. He couldn't hide for long, Charlie seemed curious.

Charlie gasped slightly and took a step back. She noticed it, the fire place. Maxwell shook and his lips trembled, he turned back to his book and shoved the midnight stricken hand in his pockets, whispering almost what seemed like gibberish. Charlie crawled under and found herself in his secret study room. Maxwell was still working with his hand, he wanted to step out of the picture but it was too late, Charlie noticed the wall. The whispers rang through the room, making her go completely stiff. Charlie could not make out this 'gibberish', it sounded like "hsijdndusinncCharliehduejncusis". Her eyes quickly examined the walls, indeed, her name was on it, as well as the gibberish words the mysterious whispers were saying. Maxwell turned, his hand was scratched badly but the shadows were gone. He slouched as he was stuck in the canvas thanks to his magic.

"Charlie-,"

She looked down and grabbed several props for the show, stuffing them in her coat pocket and purse. She ran to the door. Black brows lifted, fast clicks of her heels and wide scared eyes.

"Charlie!" The picture cut his words. The door was now was shut, the noise carried through William's apartment. He jumped out of the picture and rubbed his hand. It was gone? Good. He looked at the book and sighed, closing it with a snap. The sound from the door impact was gone, and all he could hear was the faint whispers coming from the book. He couldn't lose his mind, he can't. He began to pace slightly, looking at his perfectly tailored grey suit.

He decided to quit, and slouched in his desk chair. A few hours left until the final performance in San Francisco, from there him and Charlie were supposed to move on across the US. Maxwell got up an decided to wash himself and prepare.

After a long thoughtful shower he slipped his unusual suit on. The shoulder fabrics were curled at the edges, his tailcoat as well. He grabbed his satchel and shoved the book inside aggressively, then walked out of his study room and to the door. Maxwell stopped. He picked up the slightly crunched paper from the floor and opened it. His slender fingers trailing the name of the writer,

Max,

Where are you? I haven't heard from you in days! I stopped by your place, so I've got your props and costume for the show. I'll see you at the theatre tonight, I hope?

We need to talk about your... Study room. There's some creepy stuff going on in there! Maybe when this run is over we can take a little break? My sister said we could use the family cabin up in BC if we want to get away

XO,

Charlie

He gripped the note tightly and frowned, he moved to his kitchen counter and grabbed another note he kept.

COMING TO YOUR TOWN!

GOOD SPRINGS BULLFROG DELAMAR ROUND MOUNTAINS. PERFORMERS ALL THE WAY FROM LONDON. YOU WON'T WANT TO MISS THE STRONG MAN.

Maxwell frowned at the picture depicting a small fellow with dark hair, face painted ivory with ruby cosmetics on his lips and cheeks. He crinkled the note and threw it in his wastebasket, and shoved Charlie's note in his pocket. He quickly grabbed the book and was out the door.

This was the finale night, Maxwell was praying that his insanity wouldn't get the best of him.

...

The crowd went wild as the two entered the stage. He could notice a glint of regret and nervousness in Charlie's eyes. He wanted to reassure her that everything was ok, but with the actions she saw on his secret wall, she probably wouldn't believe such a quote.

Maxwell began the usual. Black glitter, fun shadowy shapes depicting fascinating monsters, animals, words and shapes. The crowd predicted that would be the beginning, and they continued to love it. And they knew something spectacular was about to come up, this was his final showing for a while after all.

He finished a trick and bowed. "Thank you! Thank you, you're all too kind!"

Charlie signaled the audience to quiet down, they did so once Maxwell opened his book once more.

"And now, I will pull shadows incarnate from this tomb."

He reached into the book as Charlie stepped back. Maxwell began to focus, he closed his eyes and tried to let the shadows come to him, he felt a tug. Then another. The crowd gasped as a large clawed hand grabbed his neck, then pushed him down on his neck. Charlie was taken aback, gasping. She bent down next to her partner and tried to pull the claw off him. It seeped back into the book and fell to the floor.

The pages of his tomb began to flutter and pull back. Maxwell stared down at the pages and then looked up a Charlie. He stood up once two broad midnight hands flew out of the pages, grabbing him and Charlie, both sucked into the pages of internal darkness.

...

1919

The news 7 years a go struck Wilson like a rock to the head. The titanic sunk, mother and father's vacation was ruined. Wilson's life was ruined. Albert was heading home from the world war during the time. he was supposed to head straight to college right after his departure but he dropped out suddenly when he heard the news and went back to his London home to comfort his older brother.

Wilson didn't understand why Albert was comforting him. His soothing words and rubs to the back were completely non-normal. Wilson eventually eased into his brother's touch as he cried mounds of tears. He noticed several had left Albert's eyes as well.

After a few weeks, Albert left, leaving Wilson to his studies. He decided to take over the Higgsbury household, being the only Higgsbury who cared about his ancestry and knowledge itself. He assumed Albert didn't care, he was probably out somewhere, messing around with women.

During the past 7 years, Albert visited him every now and then. Every Time he arrived, a new girl tagged along. Wilson could remember a few...Martha...Daisy..(who moved on to marry a famous sports man) Anastasia...

Wilson never really listened to his brother's words or news from the other side of London. Usually every time he enters a giggle comes from the girl, cue Albert to say something slightly suggestive, then walks, no struts to his brother's small lab which was replaced by his old room. Albert always knew Wilson would be there. "That's your brother?" Every girl purrs.

Every time, Albert responds with a, "Oh, yes."

Wilson has clearly non verbally stated he does not want anything to do with him, and to be honest, he believes Albert should just leave his antics to south London or New York.

It is now 1919, Wilson is 29. Higgsbury household still a mess, mummy Higgsbury's antiques stuffed away in the closet until Wilson has enough nerve to look at them again. The bathroom is never washed or cleansed. Wilson hid his father's Shakespeare books away, nerve and sorrowful thoughts got the best of the scientist. They were now replaced with science books as far as the eye could see.

He could say he was not as happy as he should be. But he felt his best when he was alone. He loved it when his hair bleached from his strange chemical reactions, it always reminded him he's making progress. The white spots on his red striped jacket also made him feel like a professional, a gentleman scientist.

...

Wilson awoke to the quick blurs of mahogany leaves falling past his window. A perfect October morning. He rubbed his hair, sticking up in 3 different ways, no matter how many times he slicks it back or tends to it, it always stays in it's spiked form. It's been pointed and wacky like that most of his life, unlike his brother's, which is always neatly combed back completed with a finely shaved goatee. Specialized to what? Attract women, according to Wilson.

That morning, Wilson didn't bother to shower, he had work to do. He slumped in his red chair and viewed the autumn sky for a short while, then headed into the kitchen. The stench of unwashed dishes and plates filled the room, suddenly giving him the sense of panic. What if someone were to visit, Albert never gives him a notice. What if a woman is coming over?

'Cease those thoughts Wilson, you consider yourself married to your work. You have no time for women, and neither do they for you.' He gave himself a quiet pep talk and washed his dishes slowly. After he finished he found a surprise, a letter. How long has it been? 2 months? 3? No, he was wrong. Probably the last time he received a notice or letter was 7 years ago at 'their' funeral.

This was a joy to Wilson. He sat on his large velvet chair again and opened the card. The scent made him pause his excitement, Albert, bugger. Wilson furrowed his brow as he read the note.

Hello dear brother,

It has been a while. But I do have exiting news, I will be returning from college to see you again brother! Anastasia sadly left me for a bloke 3 years older than me, can't you believe it?

"Sadly, no." Wilson muttered aloud.

Anyhow, be prepared. I was thinking when I visit we should walk around London, and get out of your forest like habitat. Wouldn't it be fun, plus I heard the circus is in town, I think going with you would be a delight dear brother! I will be here by October 28th. See you very soon dear brother.

Albert.

Wilson set the note down gingerly on a small table. The 28th was in a week and a half, on the plus side at least Albert wasn't bringing one of his lady friends here. Wilson groaned softly and got out of his comfortable chair.

He made his way to his old beaker set and began his daily experiments. Concoction creating was sort of a struggle for him, for the past few days the chemicals he has been mixing always ended with bleached hair, trousers and best. He sighed and tried to pull his ebony hair back, it did not work. It bounced back up in it's original form. Wilson sighed as he began mixing his previous chemical's together, hoping he would make the correct ingredients for future studies and inventions.

It's working. Nothing has erupted, no bleached eyes or hair. Wilson began to mix his substances faster, faster faster. Until drops fell onto his dark brown bear skin rug. He stopped and tried to catch his breath, then he loomed over his potentially successful creation.

Instead of a success, Wilson got a burst of dangerous chemicals to the face. He growled again, slightly in pain. He ran to his bathroom and rubbed his face and hair, then he angrily ripped off his crimson stripped vest, then his dress shirt. He continued to rub his hands through his hair again, then his red stricken eyes. He stopped and close them, they grew glossy because of the chemical mixtures to the face.

Wilson slumped against the bathroom counter and tried his best to take deep breaths. Losing his cool was not a gentleman's way of expressing anger, not even an independent scientists way. A walk. That's it. A fine afternoon walk around suburban England.

Wilson nodded to himself and began to dress again, a fresh vest and dress shirt, then a dark peacoat. He shoved his hands in his pockets almost aggressively and trudged outside, shielding himself from the harsh sunlight hissing at his pale skin. It took him quite a long time to get to the main city of London, he had no money so he insisted on not taking a cab.

Once he arrived in the urban area, he decided to have a cup of tea at a small café. (Sitting alone of course.) Wilson watched the cheery citizens of London go on about their cheery lives. It took him an hour to finish his small cup of tea, he tipped the waitress and then checked the time. 5:30.

It would be around 7 once Wilson returns home. He scrambled out of London and headed into a forest shortcut. It certainly was his favorite spot to walk in times like these, where he thinks he's a failure or a nuisance to the outside world.

The smell of the dead leaves filled his scenes. Wilson let out a quick sigh and admired the purple sunset before him. It was getting later and later, and Wilson was walking slower and slower. He always loved to examine things, wether it was a small branch on a tree, or a family-run home, with running screaming children. He continued to walk amongst the dead leaves, ruby and mahogany surrounded him, definitely giving him more ease than usual.

He made his way past the friendly English neighborhood, he could see it still behind him. It was just about a block left until he arrived back at the Higgsbury household. Wilson paused as he stepped on a leaf, he turned his pale profile to the neighborhoods. It felt like a whisper. Wilson then turned his head and looked at the ground, his mind began to race as images of little Wilson Percival Higgsbury rushed through his mind.

The purple and maize book.

The whispers were back. Wilson turned back again and raised his brows, the whispers began to intensify. Suddenly the shadow of the purple sky turned dark for a short while, something past the sky, like a hawk. Wilson shivered as a wall of dark tendrils and clouds rushed towards him. Wilson wanted to move, he hasn't seen anything like this before!

It accelerated, Wilson could have sworn he let out a scream. His legs screamed to stay in it's place, but the gentleman scientist broke into a sprint, trying to out run the large wall of unknown darkness. Wilson didn't have time to think about the book, or the whispers, just running.

He couldn't hear the wall reach him, but he felt the horrible sensation. He collapsed on the concrete, his head began to ring. His ivory fingers gripped the rocky road and slowly pushed his body upward. The wall was gone, he was...hit by this dastardly hellish weather. Wilson had no scientific backup, how was this possible? The whispers were now sure to plague Wilson's life once more, he remembers trying to find a source of that but it was no use. All of those visits to the library showed no sign of the mysterious book. He told Albert about the whispers, just Albert, he said Wilson was mad, then stuck his tongue playfully at him and scampered off to his croquet pals.

Wilson's blurry vision slowly healed. He examined his surroundings, neighborhood, autumn, on road... Wilson gasped and landed in the grass, hoping he wouldn't get hit by a Tin Lizzie. A sharp pain pulsed through his right hand, his eyes widened at what he found, he opened his mouth but no sound escaped.

Black covered his fingertips, all the way down to his elbow. Claws grew, fingers longer, the black shimmered in the autumn sunset. Wilson began to hyperventilate. Was he dreaming, was this all a terrible dream, the whispers, the wall of shadows, his fall, the hand? What if he could just wake up and redo the last 20 years of his life? Maybe he could pinpoint the day he first heard he whispers and wake up there, and never reach that end of the science section, so he would never be plagued again.

Wilson lifted his dress shirt sleeve, small swirls ended at his elbow. Wilson heaved and then slowly began to trace the engraved darkness, plaguing his ivory skin. It hurt. He hissed and almost collapsed again. This was all a trick, just a silly trick. Was Albert behind this? Was it something Wilson ate? Was it the tea at the café? Wilson began to regain his stance, his skinny legs wobbled as he began to walk. Then sprint.

...

Steam embedded around him. He scratched his hand rapidly, the more he did it, he hurt. His sneers began to turn into whimpers, his whimpers turned to sharp cries. His hands searched for shadows everywhere else, nothing else. His right hand slumped over the steamy tub, the scratching and washing wouldn't work. Wilson's throat was sore from screaming because of the pain.

He cleared his throat quickly as he raised his hand. He moved the shadow back and forth, it's whispers speeding up, then slowing down. Then he waved it back and forth, faster faster faster. The sound of the sped up whispers gave Wilson a migraine.

He slumped his head over the towel covered tub. Tears slowly trailed down his face as his right hand twitched. Nothing worked. Wilson was determined to dump some sort of bleach substance, he didn't care how much it hurt he just wanted the darkness gone.

He gave up, climbed out of the tub and got dressed. He had to take some sort of drastic measure. Wilson ran to his cabinet and took out a roll of black fabric, and quickly covered himself and wrapped it tighter and tighter.

Wilson fell on his bed, rocking it because of the force. He held his arm tightly and pressed it into the linen fabric. The only thing he heard was the soft sounds of the gibberish whispers and his rages breathing.

He only slept for 6 hours. Wilson sprung out of bed and ran to his kitchen. He began to unwrap his hand, slowly and carefully. He squinted his glossy blue eyes and watched the band show a creak of black. Wilson sighed, oh how he hoped for this black to be gone! The scientist growled and proceeded to rip it off, exposing the creature.

"Blasted...thing." He grunted as he clenched it again. The hand responded with a blast from his clawed fingertips, hitting the cupboards. His prized china plates clattered to the ground. "No no no!" Wilson bent down and grabbed the shards, which made it even worse. A plume of shadows spread across the ground, causing the shadows to lift off the ground and fly across the room. A shard scratched his pale cheek.

He heaved and held his hand against the kitchen tile. Eventually he made his breathing rhythm the same as the whisper's speed. He lifted his head and noticed a faint rhythm coming from his small red radio. A name, an American man' name was being announced. Louis...

Wilson dazed out, why did he leave his radio on all night? He doesn't remember even turning on the silly thing. Loud jazz began to ring out causing Wilson to flinch. He stood up and sighed, resting his hand on the small island of the kitchen. While adjusting to stand up, the song died down and a small news report entered the crackled speaker.

'Good morning England, I Lester York give you breaking news this morning. Last night a father, a son, a man was killed last night. It was an announced murder, according to detective inspector Sal McNary. Strange substances were found in his wounds, black substances. Some believe oil or paint was added into the wounds. If you have a connection to this man's murder, please call-'

Wilson ignored the number. He rushed to the used roll of black fabric and wrapped himself up again. He then rushed to his closet and put on his coat, running out the door.

He shielded himself again from the harsh fall morning sunlight. Whoever this man was, and wether it was oil or whispery shadows coming out of his wounds. The scientist knew this had to do with his case.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson was out of breath once he reached the main part of London. His thinking, coordinated movements and his thoughts were faster than normal.

He asked people about the murder in a frantic cracked voice. Several knocked the scientist off, or stared at his right hand in horror or confusion. Wilson decided to investigate for himself. After a mere 30 minutes of trudging through the confused, yet amusing city of London, Wilson came across a crowd, surrounding what looked like a bar. Several detective inspectors and loud mouthed drunk Englishmen crowded around what looked like a pile of...black ink.

Wilson gasped slightly and tried to push through the drunks, who defended themselves, calling him names. Wilson made his way through the crowd and came across a group of policemen holding him and the barmen back, but he was able to see the massacre in front of him.

The body of the man was left there all day? Wilson cringed at the sight, it felt like everything went silent. The drunks shouts and hatred were fading out, and Wilson listened to the drip drip drip of the black blood seeping out of his wounds.

"Sir! Sir, please, I have a proposition!"

A DI lifted his head and walked over the tape. He was tall, tan and had flattened platinum hair. He crossed his arms, ready to hear the gentleman's statement.

"Please, let me speak to your fellow leader of...whatever you do." Wilson didn't quite understand crime work, which made platinum tighten his arms.

"No crossing allowed sir, this is a private investigation. Now, head back to your drunk pals and continue to mock us, we won't care."

Wilson's brows raised at the dastardly statement. "My good sir, I believe this murder has a connection to my...disabilities."

"You ain't dead, you're walking. Back, now."

Wilson began to grit his teeth, he lifted his arm and was about to unwrap the black fabric. "But sir, I-." The DI pushed him back into the crowd, Wilson caught himself from falling on the cobblestone and adjusted his coat. Several drunks got louder at the DI's action. Wilson Higgsbury shook his head and stormed off.

He grabbed his arm and held it down, trying to calm himself. He exited the crowd and took a left, walking next to the bar windows.

He saw the man, the black substance, tried to protest and mention his arm, but failed. Wilson decided that maybe it wasn't the best to show the arm, after what happened this morning. Wilson was scared, even more scared than that time when he was 9. The whispers. If the same whispers came from the book and the shadows, then they had to be connected to doubt. The weird feeling Wilson felt when seeing the dripping black could be connected too.

He had to explore more. Get around London, ask questions. Wilson was about to turn the corner when he was blocked by a red feminine figure. "I-I'm so sorry Miss." The girl pursed her tan lips at him and crosses her arms.

"Hmm, better be."

"American." Wilson beamed.

"What?"

"What are you doing here in England, Madam?" Wilson could not help but ask the kind lady, he was hoping he wasn't scaring her away.

"That's none of your business." Her dark pigtails bounced as she tried to move past him. He stopped her once more, by raising his arm.

"Wait, please...I..have a small question madam."

"Don't call me that."

"Miss I-,"

She glared at him stronger, which caused the scientist to stutter. "W-well, I um."

"It's Willow." She snapped. "Now that that's out of the way, question?" She inhaled and tapped a dark heel.

"You have heard of the murder...correct?"

"Yes, and well-"

"So you know the fellow that was killed?"

"Easy there, I said I heard of it, not a whiteness of it."

Wilson was this close to giving up on his forward investigation and giving up. "I-I well," Willow cocked a dark brow and tilted her head, her pouty lips were pursed again. "Oh, never mind. Never mind this never mind me." She opened her mouth as her lashes fluttered with confusion.

Just then Wilson felt a rush of steam behind him, making him yelp slightly. The young woman looked up and saw a carriage parked before her. She dug inside a pocket in her red dress and took out a golden shilling, flipping it in action. "Well, I best be off."

"Oh, where to?" Wilson shook his head. "Ah me, I mean um...I'm sorry a gentleman shouldn't ask those types of-"

"Can it, you're fine." Willow rolled her eyes and climbed on the carriage, giving the driver her payment. "Orphanage, it's their lunch time right now. Also I'm taking over night shift." She reached in her dress pocket once more and took out a small lighter. "Let me tell you the camp fires get heated." She pulled the small lever down and chuckled as the small flame ignited. "Good day," She mockingly teased the Brit. "Erm..."

"Wilson. Wilson Percival Higgsbury." He raised his head, ebony locks bouncing in the wind.

"Wilson...XYZ...I can't remember. I'm calling you Will."

"Wait, what?"

The horse started to clop away. "Good day Will!"

...

Willow was probably the most 'different' woman Wilson had ever met. His mouth was agape at her behavior. Maybe his brother was right, Americans are crazy.

He started walking again, head down, shadowed by his black locks. The bar was quite large, usually when Wilson walked by the rancid building it was full of men, screaming with violence and rage. Occasionally he heard laughter and jokes. Wilson felt like this place was more of a brothel than a bar, upon seeing very provocatively dressed women enter every now and then. Wilson always decided to drink beer at home.

Now it felt like a waste land, and the sky was perfect for the scene. Dark and ominous. Wilson was positive it was going to rain soon. The sky rumbled above him as he gave a stealthy look through the dingy windows. Tape surrounded the inside, some broken glasses on the floor, Wilson assumed fights broke out in the bar during that night, the death of the man must've shook them.

The harder Wilson looked, the more he noticed. A half of a head with brown and black locks was pushed against the window. Wilson cocked a brow, why was anyone in here, and how did they get in there? The scientist felt a feeling he has fell a dozen times before, curiosity. He moved closer to the yellow and black stained windows, analyzing the 'person' in front of him. The head was facing backwards, as it hit the glass repeatedly in a slow pattern.

Seizure? Wilson stepped back slightly, this man...or woman, or whoever this was, was certainly struggling, or even worse. Dying! Wilson began to shout through the glass, making the head stop. "Sir, er...Miss please, if you're having trouble, I can help. Please friend, let me just-."

Wilson gasped again once the head surfaced. Painted white, with blush even on both cheeks. Dark cherry red lips parted as smoke poured out. What? The clown looking man stood up and opened the window, motioning Wilson to enter.

Without question, Wilson did. The young man was shorter than him surprisingly, dressed in a striped shirt and brown trousers. He was smoking a cigarette, which he destroyed once Wilson entered the broken bar.

"What are you doing in here? You need to get out, this is under police protection!" Wilson sneered. The clown man interrupted him and grabbed a small book opening it and jotting down words as fast as possible. Wilson watched in awe as the young man raised the note.

'I am apart of this. Trust me.'

Wilson stuttered. "W-well, I uh...you are apart of the police community?"

He shook his head and continued to write in his small booklet. 'My father was killed.'

The stuttering continued. "O-oh, m-my good sir I am so very sorry. You must be distraught, your head was thumping against that. Are you sick?"

'Cigarette wouldn't light. Had to keep leaning forward.'

"Well with my company I wasted a whole cigarette. I'm sorry."

The man shook his head and wrote a forgiving statement, which made Wilson feel a little better. "B-but why did you invite me in?"

Scribble scribble, 'I was lonely.'

"You know my good sir that you can't trust everyone. You can't randomly invite people into your life in a flash."

'You look trustable.'

"Me?"

The young man nodded and altered the subject. He began writing some more, not even taking special care into his words. His writing wasn't perfect, but manageable. 'My father owned this bar. Always away at work, and I had to take care of the house. I try my best to give him affection and the love of a son. It hardly worked, and our last conversation wasn't even full of love at all. I..just needed to share that with someone.'

Wilson bent down and rested his hands on his kneecaps. "I'm truly sorry, goodness I don't even know your name and yet I feel like I'm talking to an old friend."

'I'm Wes, I'm a mime.'

"Well, I can see that." Wilson chuckled.

'I've always wanted to be one, father wasn't so proud of my dreams. His words of 'shut up' for the last time spoke to me. I will shut, shut down. And I will carry on with my dreams.'

"Wes, I understand your pain...I'm practically a standalone scientist. My parents loans pay for my house. I believe that we are more alike than you think. I'm Wilson Percival Higgsbury, how d-do you do?"

Wes smiled and shook his hand gingerly. After that he began to wipe his black eyes, make-up smearing down his cheeks. 'The shadows," He wrote, "Never in my life have I seen such a thing, and his body is still out there. They just leave him out there in the cold for a whole day for inspection. Why can't they just take him home, or to a grave already I can't see my father like this.'

"They're hard to reason with. If that was my father and mother I would fall apart. It would be best to let the inspectors to do their work, I'm afraid."

Wes sniffled and wrote again. 'Wilson, thank you for your understanding.'

"It's funny how two people come together is it not?"

Wes gave him another cheerful smile, but it faded and his dark red lips closed once Wilson altered the story. "I'm glad you are connected to this, ah, I mean it's terrible I'm sorry...what I meant to show you was...this." Wes watched in confusion as Wilson pulled his fabric off slowly.

Claws began to resurface and Wes gasped slightly and scraped himself across the wooden floor.

"Wes, wait. I won't hurt you...I don't think." Wes stopped and leaned in, examining the shadow hand. Wilson slowly turned it around, the whispers followed it. "It's like your father's blood."

Wes nodded frantically.

"Wes...I don't know why but I think something is coming. And it might," Wilson clenched his teeth and hissed. "It might bring sorrow, I believe it already has but...it will bring much more than this."

Wilson explained everything to the grief stricken mime. The shadow wall, his hand, the pain, even the strange book and the whispers. Surprisingly Wes believed everything. With the sight of Wilson's dreadful weapon of a hand and his father's death, Wilson's stories were inevitable for belief.

'I wish to sleep here. They don't know I'm staying in this place, get out of here as fast as possible. But, come back tomorrow.'

"But- Wes you can't sleep here, please come to my house, I can make you a dinner and-"

'Leave, please.'

Wilson sighed and climbed out the window. He made a new friend today, a demanding friend, possibly his first friend. It's was interesting how such dark things could bring people together. Wilson promised his new friend that they would meet again, to possibly make up a plan and figure out what was really going on.

...

Wilson decided it was best to head home after such a long day of argument, sorrow and harsh communication. He was greeted by the wreckage and glass shards around his home. He rushed to each catastrophe he causes this morning and tried to clean up, but his left arm refused.

The fabric was loosening, and the claws became visible. They erupted from his hand again and caused more windows and objects to break. Wilson began to wrestle with his arm, which caused his left hand to burn to the touch.

He couldn't live like this anymore. Wilson was confused, hurting and angry. He couldn't tell anyone else about this, it would cause outbreak, right? Would Wilson be traumatized for life when they call him names, even worse than his childhood bullies? Would they throw rocks at him, telling him he's a monster?

Wilson shivered at the thought. Or would the people of London show compassion, maybe they would cure Wilson's arm? Tears fell down his face as he frantically began to wash his shadow hand at his sink.

Spit foamed from his faded lips, as his calloused thumbs rubbed every part. The claws, the burning skin and up his arm. It's not working. He grunted as he pressed harder, suds of soap began to fall off his writs, and the black was still there.

He had to tell the people, he had to. He had to find the book, Wes, and detective inspectors. Wilson stopped scrubbing his hand and exited the kitchen and into his bedroom. For the rest of the day he sat on his bed, pondering about his sudden decision to reveal his dreaded secret. He turned his hand around, and around. The whispers were muffled by the black cloth.

Wilson decided to lie down, hands at his side. He stared at his dingy white walls, listening to the clock ticks, listening to his mind. His conscious was having an argument.

It was 9 PM. For the first time in forever, Wilson didn't feel like conducting an experiment. His pale eyelids gradually became weak, and he slowly turned on his side. Wilson had to reveal it, he had to. And he knew just where to go when he will awake.

If he will awake.

...

Unfortunately, Wilson snapped his eyelids open slowly, mentally groaning at the reminder of his idea. His greasy black hair stuck out in many positions.

Blurs of orange, a ticking clock, bleach on the floor, dirty beakers. All the same views he wakes up to. But why does Wilson feel off? He cleared his throat and ruffled his hair, then tried to smooth it back. He moved to his dirty wooden desk and rested his right hand on it. Right hand- right hand.

Wilson's breath quickened, he began to tug at the fabric, no use. Sweat formed under his scalp as he began to tear it with his mouth. He finally cut a slit and quickly and oh so carefully began to remove it.

His lips quivered as he saw the outcome. Pale and clammy. The sight caused Wilson's heart to pound, it felt like it already had ascended up his throat. He swallowed and then jumped once the clock in his room struck 11AM.

The shadow was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The scientist couldn't help but stutter as he began his speech to the secretary. "Please, I-if there's any times that's available,"

The secretary applied another coat of her unnatural mahogany lip stick and tapped her pencil upon her clip board. "You've come just in time, Mr Higgsbury. All slots are free at the moment. Who was your past doctor again?"

"Dr Butterfield, miss." He rubbed at his calloused hands and sniffed.

The secretary gave him a toothy smile and escorted him to his room. Dr Butterfield hadn't changed since Wilson saw him. Chubby, rosy cheeked, greased down hair and firm brown glasses. Once Dr B noticed the gentleman scientist he immediately stood up from his chair.

"Mr Higgsbury, uh please sit down."

Wilson did so. He shivered, but not from the cold, for his story and outcome. Dr Butterfield was speechless as well, but he did try to let out a few words of encouragement. "You're lucky." He chuckled. "You're lucky I have openings. It's-its been 5 years Wilson."

Wilson nodded and pressed both of his now bare pale hands against both knees. "Yes..it has,"

"Wilson, how are you, really? You still live alone correct? The last time I checked you were...I hope my erm, 'death grievances' mental exercising helped, you never gave me feed back."

Wilson raises his head slowly, his glossy azure iris' stared into Dr Butterfield's sea foam green. "This doesn't have to do with my parents."

"But you are alone?" Wilson sighed and nodded, which caused the doctor to lean against his chair. "Well now, the last time we were here...I remember it clearly, I suggested at least some medication, hmm?"

"Doctor," Wilson started.

"I know. I know you hate this but," He leaned in his chair now, eyeing Wilson full compassion and worries. "I believe it's best. Wilson if we are still where we left of 5 years ago then we definitely have an issue on our hands. You've grown paler since the last I've saw you, and are those bags?"

"Last night was before was the most days I've slept." Wilson blinked, he started to rub his right wrist. "I'm fine, the bags won't bother me, I'm doing this for science."

"And you still consider yourself married to your work?"

"Yes."

Dr Butterfield nodded. "Listen, Wilson. Your parents were wonderful people, but-it's been 5 years. The war is done, that wondrous ship sank. I believe it's time to move on."

"But, it's NOT ABOUT THEM!" Wilson bolted off the couch, clenching his ivory fists, causing them to turn even more white. "M-my hand. It's, m-my h-hand."

Dr Butterfield nodded frantically and jotted some notes down while speaking. "Your hand? What are you talking about."

"T-there were shadows, for goodness sake it tore my house apart." The scientist shook and wiped his cheeks. "The power." He sneered. "I saw things nothing, not even science can prove it's existence."

He knew Dr B wasn't believing him at all. Those dull, light eyes pierced back at him, then his paper, then back. "Explain, Mr Higgbury."

"I'm seeing things, Doctor." He let it all out, every scene and kept secret. "Walls of shadows, clouds of darkness, whispers." Wilson pulled down his dress shirt sleeve and pointed at his wrist. "I-it was there! Engraved in me on the right side! Claws and...voices coming from it. It disappeared just this morning, I don't know why I-"

The soft voice came out of the Doctor. Wilson stopped. He knew that voice, he knew where this was going. "Wilson, you said whispers. Voices? And a wall of shadows, and a **black** hand? Your hand was pitch black? Wilson...I..I knew this would come I just didn't know it would arrive this fast in 5 years. Mr Higgsbury you wouldn't just listen to me and come more often."

"I'm not insane. Please, don't, don't do this. Don't send me there. I AM A GENTLEMAN SCIENTIST!"

"Medication might not be enough. I'm sorry Wilson, but no one can make you live like this anymore."

"You can't send me there! I won't let you. I swear I've seen it, the bleeding from the murder two days ago, did you believe what the radio tells you? That it was oil?" Wilson had to calm himself down, he straightened his dress shirt again and sat back on the couch. Dr Butterfield was speechless, his eyes moved from Wilson's face to his right arm.

"Wilson, it would be best to-"

Higgsbury cocked his head to the side and sighed as he heard the faint scribbles of his pencil. Butterfield was a dog to him, why would he even care? Why would he want to give Wilson a prescription? He needed to stop jumping on his lap and head back to the pound. Butterfield ceased his talking and finished his note. He ripped it in a flash and cautiously gave it to his patient. "Please, this will help. I'm not trying to bother you, I want the best for my patients, even if that means he has to go through hardships. Please return Wilson, and please turn this into your nearby hospital. I don't wish to see you in another 5 years, I wish to see you on the day after."

Higgsbury snatched the note and closed his eyes as he shoved it in his shirt pocket. He took a small step, then another. Soon Wilson was out of the door, leaving a confused and shouting Dr Butterfield behind. Wilson turned and leaned against the brick wall of the sanatorium.

He bit his right nails and shook in the early afternoon autumn cold. He used his left hand to dry his eyes and then pushed his head down his coat. Wilson couldn't do this, he knew something like this would happen. His hand still felt pain even through the whispers were gone and the midnight in his body had left him.

...

He ran back to his rickety old home and shut the door behind him, hearing the clattering of the shards on the floor made Wilson even more angry. The scientist slumped against the door violently. His knees began to shake, his chest rattling. The anger turned to despair.

Wilson cried. He cried of hours on end, clutching his pseudo black arm, at least that's what Dr Butterfield thought. The gentleman couldn't breathe, the sobs continued until he lost most of his voice, until it was a whispery nothing.

Twenty minutes after his tragic episode, he stood up and milled towards he kitchen, leaning on the silverware cupboard. He violently opened the wooden compartment and drew out a silvery knife. Whispers and wheezes escaped his faded lips again as he ran to the small island, pressing his wrist against the cold wood.

"It's got to go." Wilson muttered. He repeated the sentence several times, each getting louder as he pushed the knife towards his right hand. His shouts got louder, he felt his trachea screaming for relief, Wilson wouldn't allow it. He couldn't live anymore, if he has to be sent to a place where he doesn't belong, or be forced to take a bloody pill for what, his depression? What depression? So be it.

A sliver was opened and it replaced ivory with red. His veins grew a stronger violet and his fingers twitched. Suddenly a dark shaft ignited from the cut, pushing the he knife farther away from the wound. Wilson gasped in horror as the whispers began again, and threw the blood ridden knife to the floor with a loud clatter. The darkness flowed around his hands like water to a sponge, then trailed up his arm, leaving a swirl like pattern before stopping there.

It was back. Wilson backed up, still analyzing the now black hand and backed into his door. He slid down again and clenched it, trying to pull the bones and skin apart. "Go away, go away, go away."

The scientist slumped to the floor and littered the silence of his house with whimpers. The pain began to course through him again, along with the pain of the cut. During his whimpering, the whispers accelerated, then died down, truly leaving him and his voice. Wilson hardly knew what to do anymore. Yes, he has a person who can understand the darkness, and some evidence. But why won't anyone believe him?

Wilson laid there for another ten minutes, then rushed to his bedroom once more, slapped a piece of paper down and inked his feather.

'Wes,

My visit to the physiatrist was quite interesting. I didn't have as much evidence as I needed to at that hour, my shadow disappeared at that time but resurfaced later. My doctor wishes to send me to a private sanatorium, for the truly unwell. My friend I am writing the letter for a plea. I wish for you to'

Wilson stopped and his nostrils flared. He pushed his velvet chair across the room and stood up, not even minding the gouges he made into the finely polished wooden floor. He took the vanilla colored paper and ripped it to shreds, leaving ink marks on his left hand.

He couldn't wait. He had to find Wes. The scientist forgot his coat and rushed out the door, pushing through the dark rusted gates. All of the time Wilson spent fighting over the whispers was long, the evening was arriving. A periwinkle/orange sky loomed over Wilson as he ran through forest after forest. He finally reached the edge of where the English neighborhoods started.

Wilson slowed down the catch his breath, he pushed his shadows deeper in his trouser pockets, wincing at the pain. The voices started up again as Wilson began to slowly walk towards civilization, a lying, unbelieving civilization. "Leave, please." He wheezed. It felt like pleading was now his only option to end this, he tried so many other things. "Just go, go on now." He felt the tears beginning to form and burn his eyes. "Stop doing this to people, who ever you are, whatever you are. What is your purpose, why are you here? Why did you chose me? Why would anyone choose me?"

Gibberish. Thought so. Wilson wanted to scream again, at the whispers, at his brother, at his deceased parents, at Wes, at Willow, at the doctor, at his life. It was hard for him to be plagued by such a supernatural mystery. So there he stood, silently weeping again under the purple sky, at his one and only new enemy, himself.

A dark glint happened again, but this time not from his arm. But the wall in front of him. He shook his head, he dark brows narrowing. It pushed towards him slowly. He began to shuffle, then walk, then Wilson broke out into a sprint, trying to push air into his now damaged voice box. It still traveled slowly, taking it's time to tease the gentleman scientist with it's dark whispery utterances. "If you think you can stop me, you can't." His voice cracked. "Are you listening to me now?" The wall pushed forward, Wilson was surprised no one was present in their houses to run out and save him.

"Is this a game, or a test?" He questioned. His feet slowed down. "A test to what? Prove my insanity? Or will I awake, and this will all be fiction?" Wilson thought about it, biting his lip. If he were to wake up the day he found that book, or tomb of whispers, he would alter the outcome, why didn't he reread something? Why didn't he just keep his father company?

"Go back to hell." Wilson sped up again, ceasing the thoughts of his father and the whispers. He just needed this to end. The darkness took it's time, crawling against the concrete. "Go back. Go back~!"

He didn't feel any sensation, he didn't feel a sharp pain in his chest. The still felt it in his arm, but nothing was different. The tendrils of the shadow wall disappeared above him as the gentleman sank to his knees. His cobalt eyes searched the evening sky for his what seemed like a metaphoric enemy. He squinted and opened his mouth, destroying his throat with a final scream of regret and fear.

 **AN: Dr Butterfeild is a character featured in a Don't Starve Fic called The Man Who Played God. Go ahead and read it of AO3 it is truly a delight! I believed Dr Butterfield would do well in my story but I don't own him. The writer named fastern does. Just wanted to clarify that :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Thank you all for waiting patiently for the next chapter! And a huge thank you for the reviews, follows and favorites! ~Moonmilk**

Wilson's instinct was pointed in the direction of visiting the library the next morning. That's exactly what he did. Greeted by a 78 year old Miss Wickerbottom in 7 years was interesting, his past 'adult' friend explained the change in the science section and how many new theorems turned into books. Higgsbury decided to keep the shadows and the strange happenings to himself when exchanging words with the librarian.

Wilson spent only a few hours looking through the old stash of science books. Some were added to the library's collection that Wilson was excited to read. But he couldn't focus on such matters. He moved towards the end of the shelf and closed his eyes, ready to invite the whispers in his ear.

Nothing.

He snapped his eyes open and rushed to the edge of the section. It wasn't there. Of course it wasn't there. It's been over 20 years! Wilson saw the outcome coming, he was curious who actually stole the book. He spent the rest of the afternoon reading the new science books that were ordered over the past 20 years. He wished he could tell Miss Wickerbottom the news about his arm and the strange book, but he had the slight feeling she would regent him, or agree with Dr Butterfield.

Wilson kept his disappointment bottled in his brain and bid Miss Wickerbottom a sincere 'good day'. Of course she stopped the young man, trying her hardest not to bring up the harshness that happened during his life. The old librarian assured that everything was slowly getting better, with the war and all. Wilson began to bite his lip but then smiled slightly and nodded. And lied.

No book. No whispers. Wilson was utterly lost and angry. He substituted his real feelings and practically skipped out the door and into the musky air of London. 5:55 PM.

Wilson let out a breath of cold air as it changed into its cloud-like form. He tucked his right arm under his peacoat, pressing it gently against his chest. He added more pressure, looked like the pain was gone for now. He smoothed out his curly black hairs and ruffled the snowflakes out.

He turned to his next destination of explanation. The bar.

Wilson went the same way he did when he met the mime, through the broken window. All of the detectives and police left the scene, and the body of Wes' father was cleaning up, and sent to God knows where. It was silent, stale beer filled Wilson's nose as he milled around. A scrap of paper was slapped to the desk. The scientist hurried over and read the letter.

'I am now at my flat, please come see me at 2847 Phillip St.'

Wilson nodded to himself and ripped the note up, then watched the shavings of Wes's writing flutter to the bar floor.

...

Wes quickly invited his new friend in his adobe. Wilson had to admit, it was a fine flat, perfect for two people. The kitchen and the living room was in front of him, in the back was him and his father's rooms.

Wes scrambled to find his notebook and sat down by Wilson, ready to write.

"Thank you. This place is wonderful."

'Of course, did you find anything about the black stuff?'

Wilson lifted his arm and twisted it slightly. "To be honest my friend, nothing has surfaced but the same things."

Wes raised a dark brow. He looked different without his mime get up. He was surprisingly tan for a young english bloke, Wilson also noticed dark red smudges on his light rose lips, his make up wasn't fully removed. Wes quickly jotted down more words and raised it to Wilson's still pained and scarred face. 'Explain?'

"The wall returned," It was sort of a relief letting out all of this. Wes nodded as Wilson told him about the 'tease' he believed the shadows were teasing him, destroying his core, his heart, making him vulnerable. "Then my hand can't decide if it wants to stay with me or not, Wes….I'm truly more afraid than i've ever been."

Wes was appalled at his story, the mime was bombarded emotionally with his abusive father's death. But with Wilson, Wes thought it felt like it was being shot by a bullet over and over in the heart. Truly aggravating and unsettling, Wes wanted to beg Wilson to head back to the library with him, but he knew Wilson was a mess, he couldn't search for answers any longer. Instead, Wes apologized.

'I am sorry for pushing you out of the bar suddenly. I was just nervous, with my father's death and your story. I just invited you in the bar because I needed some company, like you said it is funny how two people come together in a state of darkness. I thank you once again friend for understanding my pain.'

Wilson nodded and rubbed his palms together. The conversation regarding the strange events went on for another few minutes, then it ended in fresh hot chocolate and gentlemanly laughter.

It was getting late and the scientist was thinking of a perfect time to bid farewell to his circus friend. Wes' hand ached from writing to hard, he flapped his wrist back and forth, wincing slightly. Higgsbury finished his mug and set it down gingerly on the table. He watched Wes grab his notebook once more and begin to write.

"Oh, no. Wait." He bent down and touched his friend's wrist. "Don't do it if it hurts. I'm on my way out, I will visit tomorrow. We didn't make good planning for our investigation, we shall tomorrow my friend." Wes bumped his hand off his wrist and began his sentence. "Oh, alright." Wilson acknowledged and sat back on the sofa waiting for Wes to finish his...excruciatingly long sentence.

'I was just wondering if you could attend the funeral. You don't have to, I understand you're going through much more than I am. It's at 12:00, at Hyde Park. I've learned a lot about you Wilson Higgsbury, and one thing could be that your not that comfortable around large crowds. My father's death is a huge controversy.'

Wilson pursed his lip and took a deep breath. "Of course I'll attend. You and I will get through this. There has to be a way to end this, we have to think harder. More damage will be created, with your life and mine. And hopefully once this is solved, I can return to science and you can return to your...circus."

Wes slowly smiled. The wider the prouder. Wilson gave a respectful nod to his friend and hurried out into the cold bitter outdoors.

...

Wilson washed his formal red sweater and suspenders just for this. He was lucky his hand caused no destruction or coursing pain through his body. And his sleep was...manageable. Wes was right, his drunken father's death was quite the controversy. People lined the streets and meadows of Hyde park. Some arguing, some crying, some just were here for the gossip.

Cameramen filled the streets, snapping photo's making parts of the park light up. Newspaper men scattered around, some from all over the world, stating the news about the man's death. Wilson looked at the front page of an article that just flew by his feet. 'Death by shadows.' Higgsbury was surprised that England chose such a gory photo for the cover, he could've sworn he heard the shadow blood still dripping from Wes' father's wounds.

After scouting around for several minutes he finally found the main event. Several cardinals and a priest were present, spreading ash near his casket. Wilson had to push through the crowd to see the sight, and noticed that Wes was in the front row, trying his best to keep a straight and solemn face. Higgsbury caught his red rimmed eyes and slightly smeared grey beneath them. He wanted to scream his friend's name and rush towards him and tell the mime everything was going to be alright, just like yesterday.

It felt like Wes was surrounded by journalists and radio broadcasters, begging for the young man's attention. Wilson also noticed that no other family was present, which made the scientist's heart break even more for his new friend.

The ceremony began. Several hymns were sang and some speeches from the priest, some investigators, but no Wes. Wilson sort of saw this coming, the mime kept his mouth shut as usual and raised his chin. After that, one more hymn, then the casket was about to take off.

Crowds of people made room for the dead barman. Wes stood behind the casket as some of his father's closest friends lifted the wooden object and headed towards the grave site. Wilson could hardly see anymore, people began to crowd around the depressing sight, sniffles and whispering commenced as Wilson watched in silence, holding both of his hands.

Just then, a warm sensation was felt on his left shoulder. The scientist yelped and turned to see vibrant red and curled ebony pigtails. "Miss Willow?"

"Hi...you. Wait...Will. There, I got it right."

For the second time he found the woman and still wasn't satisfied with her rude behavior. He crossed his arms. "Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same?" Her eye lids lowered to reveal shimmered black eyeshadow.

"This man's son, he's my friend." Wilson whispered as he watched Wes' bodily frame grow smaller as he walked away. Willow urged him to begin waking and catch up with the following crowd. He did and Wes' body was now in view, the residents and attenders were pushed back, to see Wes slowly walking along the soiled road.

"Mine as well."

"You know this man?" Willow nodded slowly and continued. "Don't be so surprised ok? I'm going to tell a tear jerker. I was dropped off, age 7 no food, no water, just...littered I guess. My parents were travelers and they just decided they wanted everything else in the world but a child. Discoveries, money, romance, a never ending life of travels. I was taken into an orphanage, and let's just say during my 6th year in that godforsaken dorm house, a flame started. No one knew how it started, but at least all of the children and staff made it out alive. But we scattered."

"Seems like this is more information about you than him."

"Hush. I was saved by him."

"Wha- He saved you?"

"He ingested so much smoke I swear he would have died at my feet before we could make it out of the house. I guess he just was a traveling circus mime finishing up a gig in his home town," She scoffed. "wanderlust."

"Well, that was very brave of him I assume." Wilson grew silent for half of the walk, yet Willow stayed next to him. As they past bushels of roses, she picked one, twirling the gorgeous object in her fingers.

"So how did you?"

"What?" He turned to see Willow, ripping the crimson flower petal by petal.

"How did you meet him?"

Wilson pursed his lower lip and sniffed. He examined his right hand and grasped it tightly with his left. "Well...it's slightly long and..."

"Will, I have time."

"Oh Miss, I know you do but-"

"What's wrong?" Willow titled her tan frame to his fabric covered hand. Wilson clenched it and dug his heels harder into the dirt soil. The scientist shook his head, cursing himself for what he was about to do. He motioned Willow to follow him off the track and into a small glade. There, Wilson crouched under a bush, far away from the traveling mourners.

Willow asked what was wrong once more. "Everything, it seems." Wilson bit his lip and slowly tugged his fabric loose, revealing a large black claw, then two, then three. Willow gasped at first and reached in her dress pocket, her fingers fiddling inside. Her jade eyes squinted now, analyzing the swift and ghost-like movements of the black tendrils circling his lanky fingers.

"I wonder," She said in awe as she pulled out her pink lighter, reaching it toward the black monster. Wilson tugged back and let out a gasp. Once the small flame reached a tendril it was taken out in a flash. Willow cocked a brow and scratched the stem of her right pigtail.

"You're not afraid, like Wes was." Wilson surprisingly exclaimed.

Willow shook her head. "Ok, now that I've seen that, story time."

Wilson sighed and explained the story from the beginning, Wes, whispers, wall, suicidal thoughts, Dr Butterfield, the death by shadows, the library. He was surprised he was telling a woman who partially teases him and doesn't even treat him like a grown man.

"That's...that's amazing. Why aren't you telling people this, this-this will change everything. I mean it will change math, science, our way of living and-"

"Because I'm afraid ok?!" Wilson retorted, which shut the lighter owner up. She rose because of her exciting speech, but sat back down and drew up her knees. "Willow,"

"No, no I get it. With your doctor and everything..." She waved a hand in the air and then set it down on the cold grass. "I know you're trying hard to find clues and all-"

"Yes, yes. It's truly aggravating." He ran his hand through greasy and messy black locks. "With a mind like this," He tapped his forehead and sighed. "It can store a lot, but not everything. I just store everything in there until I might have use of it, like a cabinet with files."

"I'd rather just burn my thoughts, and figure it out all over again. The art of rediscovery." She grinned and lit her magenta contraption up again.

"Maybe yours could take all of the pressure and anxiety. You do a pretty marvelous job at staying calm. Maybe they should have went after you."

"Women aren't allowed to be walking alone past 7PM, especially never in October. I would be safe, locked in my room, away from the black draft."

Wilson wanted to pout. Before he knew it he was on track again, following the specks of people in the distance. Wilson and Willow finally caught up with the group and watched the burial. It was truly painful to watch Wes almost collapse over his casket. Several pops of light surrounded him as he tried to regain his strength and realize that this was real. His father was buried and the funeral ended fast. The news reporters left with their film and photos, ready to put in the paper the next day.

Wilson couldn't catch his mime friend, the mute man disappeared in the crowd and somehow was escorted home.

"It's been a pleasure Miss Willow. If you want any assistance, I can call a horseman."

"You try, and you've succeeded at being a gentleman. I can go on my own, but thank you. Thank you for...explaining everything. I'm sorry Will, I-I mean, Wilson."

"You may call me that, if you wish." Wilson smirked. "Are you sure...no horseman?"

"I'm fine. Tell Wes I said hello. I have the orphan job again."

"Ah, right."

Willow left in a flash and Wilson decided to head home himself. He did himself a favor and avoided the strange neighborhood path and finally made it back to the Higgsbury household.

He sighed once he closed the door and slumped to the wooden panel floor. He had to see Wes, he just had to. Wilson Higgsbury was overly grateful that he had at least two people supporting him. He just needed a plan. Willow didn't share much about her encounters with the shadows, if she had any.

He felt drawn to those individuals, he just automatically shared his feelings, and the shadows were present at the right time. He felt like a total fool when talking to the doctor. The words he said to him made him feel like cutting his hand off was the right thing to do.

No. Not today.

The pain was missing that day, it was like the shadows were mourning their victims too. Wilson let his hand free and the whispers started up again. Just as the thought all was cheers and hooray. He clenched his wrist and his throat burned as he let out yet another scream.

Once again, his kitchen was ruined, and more glass shards were created. He has had enough. The scientist rushed to the bathroom and pulled out a clean white towel, wrapping it around his wrist. The whispers ceased to stop, and parts of the black tendrils cut though the stringy white fabric. Other than that, Wilson felt more safe.

He couldn't help but slump in his chair. Brows furrowed, breathing rapidly. 'No, no Wilson, please.' Left hand balling, eyes twitching. 'Stop.' He couldn't cry anymore, he just didn't have the energy. Wilson was sick of crying, he cried all of his life, in all different forms, in all different ways and in all different situations.

He expected his brother to tease him, but actually that was he only thing Albert didn't mention. Sure he gossiped about his weird antics, and his undying love for science. But Albert actually kept Wilson's depressing thoughts and acts to himself.

He hiccuped repeatedly and tried to stop the crying. Higgsbury began to swallow his sobs and whistle through his nose. Hums emerged from his chapped lips as the stringy fabric of the towel was slowly being broken apart.

He was afraid to move, he was afraid to make a sound, he was afraid to visit Willow or Wes now. He didn't know what this hand could do anymore. It's been having a mind of its own.

He glanced at his beaker set and several collections of books. He wished he could start conducting, mixing and mixing until his hair is bleached white. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to wash away the tears. His left hand began to grip the sides of his leather red chair, until he let go, and a voice erupted from his red radio.

It was a tad bit fuzzy. Wilson opened his eyes and leaned over, staring in astonishment. The voice, the voice was speaking to him! It was no whisper, and no more fuzz, it was a plain as day voice!

'Say Pal~ You don't look so good!'


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Thank you all so much for waiting, I am so very sorry this took so long! Life has just been busy but I've managed to squeeze in a few more chapters! And once again thank you for all the follows, favorites and reviews! I hope you like the next installment!**

...

"Looks like you're having some trouble." Wilson's heart began to race as he glared at his ruby radio. Was this a silly commercial, he doesn't remember turning it on in the first place. He wanted to speak, but his mind was taken off of that subject when the ripping of his towel stopped. The pain stopped again. Wilson ripped the towel off, his hand was pure pale like it's always been before a few days ago.

"H-how?" He stuttered. Right when the voice began to talk the shadow left him. It continued.

"I have secret knowledge I can share with you." Wilson threw his ripped bath towel across the floor and ran to his radio, picking up the device.

"Knowledge?" What could it be, does he really want to be messing with this...this voice from his radio? Was the knowledge about the darkness, or possibly unsolvable scientific theorems that Wilson could learn and prove the world wrong?

"If you think you are ready for it." Wilson's brows lifted. This possibly changed everything, the knowledge would give him power, information about the shadows possibly. He just had to wait and see what this...ghost or voice-thing was going to show him. Higgsbury's lips quivered and he nodded. He noticed a strike of lightning happened, a storm is approaching. But what Wilson didn't know was that a shadow of a tall man was behind him, rubbing his hands in amusement. "Ok then!"

Wilson felt a warm sensation all over him, it felt...like hope. Diagrams, postulates, molecules and theorems surrounded him, curling on his body, spinning like the solar system. He lifted the radio up above his matted hair, an unknown wind began to push it around. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He swore he could have feel himself being lifted off the ground.

The wondrous sensation ended and a large smile slowly creeped up his lips. He didn't care about the haunting shadows, he didn't care about how mesmerizing and creepy the voice sounded. He had power. Wilson scuttled to his small lab area in his room where he found his beakers and other things for experiments. He began to work. Wilson really had no idea what he was doing, but he knew he was creating something absolutely extraordinary. He sawed wood, burned chemicals and mixed them together, wrote hypothesis', the voice even commanded him to catch two rats in his house and use that for his 'incredible' invention.

The strange machine was almost finished, and Wilson was a mess. Power through his brain surged, but his limbs screamed for him to stop. The voice kept commanding him to do pretty ridiculous things to form the invention, which Wilson obeyed, continuing to chop, mold, kill, cut, mix and nail.

The voice was responding in a happy excited tone, which sounded like he was treating Wilson Higgsbury like a child. He worked harder, sweat began to form on his dark brow and trailed down his temples as he reached the final step.

The voice was calm now, he carefully and oh so quietly asked Wilson to use his blood. He was surprised, why blood? Wilson ran to his kitchen as fast as he could and took a sharp kitchen knife out of his drawer. The same knife he used to almost decapitate his right arm with. He ran up to his room and asked the voice if he was still there. He was and carefully explained to Wilson that he had to put his blood in a small compartment in the machine.

Wilson walked around his almost complete invention. This was it. He could already hear his nobel peace prize speech ringing in his ear. Wilson walked slowly to the back of the machine and found a small hole sticking upward. He then looked down at his right hand, still pale. Wilson's nostrils flared as he leveled the knife to his palm and pulled it across.

He carefully moved his shaky hand to the small compartment and let the scarlet liquid drip slowly into the machine. He felt it wirring and it began to sputter. Wilson ran to his desk and began to wipe the crimson flow. He looked up, the machine was ready, it just needed to be-

"Now, throw the switch." The voice commanded. Wilson nodded and set his cloth down and happily walked over to the lever. He lifted a pale, clammy hand to the shiny luster. But it shook, and began to slowly fall to his side. Wilson bowed his head and looked at the ground. "Do it!" It snarled which made Wilson jump and escape his thought. Within a second he pulled it down and backed up.

Wilson gasped. The machine began to glow and flash several lights, a face was molded from the wood, it seemed to resemble a young man. The voice echoed in laughter, and this time it didn't come from the radio. Wilson took several steps back and watched the light destroy parts of his walls, chipping off wood and memorabilias falling from his desk.

The deadly laugh continued and Wilson felt something begin to build under his feet. The wooden floor shook and dark shadow clawed hands shot out of his floor, trying to grab the scientist's feet. Wilson gasped again and tried to run, the pain seemed to return, not just in his arm, but now all over. His feet felt like they were dragging against the floor, but they weren't, Wilson was running as fast as he could.

The shadow arms creeped up his legs and then they wrapped around his stomach and chest. He suddenly felt a pulling sensation, Wilson screamed for mercy as he reached his hands towards the ceiling. A cloud of black invaded his vision, slowly blocking the ceiling and his room out of view.

Wilson Higgsbury blacked out.

…

"Say pal, you don't look so good."

Wilson felt a warm sensation beat down on him. His eyes slowly creaked open to find the morning sun beat down on him. He blinked slowly, trying to regain his vision. The wild grass tickled his exposed arms and morning dew presses against his dress shirt.

His mindset changed after hearing the words again. A trail of smoke snaked by his nose. Wilson flipped around and tried to stand firm on his feet. The voice from the radio was coming out of a tall firm man, his black hair pulled back perfectly and his dark jade eyes glared at Wilson. A cunning smile was shown before he put the cigar back in his mouth, puffing more smoke at the scientist.

The voice. THE VOICE! Wilson sat up and nearly screeched once he saw the voice in his truly frightening form. He was tall, slender, his cheekbones caused his frame to look dark under the sunlight, casting an almost demonic look to his face. His clothes weren't so friendly ethier, the tailcoat was sripped with grey and ebony, the fabric seemed to curl at his shoulder, almost in the form of...wisps. Wilson gasped and tried his best to stand up.

"Y-you….d-did...w-why did you-?" Wilson couldn't make sense, his eyes quickly scanned the area. He was right, a bright and sunny deciduous forest, but no civilization in sight. "Where am I?" Wilson finally caught his breath and glared at the strange man.

"My world." The man smirked and raised his hands, Wilson noticed a pool of black wisps and whispers followed. The young scientist yelped and took a step back. He immediately remembered his incident and grabbed his right wrist.

"You did this." Wilson acknowledged and stared down at his wrist.

The man smirked and eyed his pale wrist, with a harsh stare he easily brought the shadows back, which caused Wilson to yelp and fall on his back. He scooted and fell against a tree as the shadow man cornered him, hands behind his back with a toothy grin.

"Stop, just please stop and send me back, I don't care if I don't have the knowledge, get me out!" Wilson stood up once more and eyed the man, who gave him a soft stare in return, then began to chuckled quietly.

"Please, just calm down Mr Higgsbury, this is your choice, you chose to enter my world, and become apart of it. You see," He began and took out a deck of cards. "This is a game, you choose your deck, shuffle, place." The cards basically floated on his hand as purple and black speckles and mist surrounded them. "If you lose, you perish. But a redemption."

"Redemption?" Wilson breathed. He moved his black arm behind his back, clenching it. "Perish...sir I don't understand please, where is London, my home!?"

"Might I give you some advice?" The man sneered, leaning in. He smelled of rich cologne and smoke. "You better find something to eat before the night comes."

A puff of smoke ignited and Wilson drew back, falling to the ground. His darkness wouldn't disappear, he dug his midnight fingers in the vert blades of grass. This was unexplainable, incredible, unbelievable.

"Food...food!" Wilson sat up and looked around once more. It was morning, and the forest was showing no signs of civilization. Wilson felt different, it wasn't a London forest. Not a forest from...earth it felt like.

He ran, he didn't care if he would get tired and possibly collapse, but he had to find food. Water. Anything to wet his chapped lips, and fill his stomach.

It took hours until he reached a large forest, canopied by trees and echoes of unknown bird calls. Wilson already had a weapon in hand, a large piece for bark, scratched and sharpened to a point. He knew he had to kill...something, which made the scientist sick to his stomach, but he had to gain nutrients.

Before he knew it, it was evening and the sun was falling into the horizon fast. Before the night falls he had to find something, anything.

The birds fell silent and Wilson stopped. He stared at the mahogany sky and noticed black speckles flying frantically away from, what? Wilson slowly turned, a muscle in his cheek twitched as he heard a rustle and a snap.

This was it, this was his chance! He leveled his stick to the nearby hedge of bushels. Was he...beginning to frigate? It certainly wasn't a small animal like a rabbit, or a squirrel, birds were fleeing as fast as their wings could carry them. Wilson thought it through and took a step back and swallowed.

Indeed, Wilson was correct, and this timing was perfect, just perfect. 4 hounds began to surface from the bushes, and Wilson stepped back even farther. "What is this...place?" The hounds growled low and violently. "Hello." One barked aggressively. Wilson couldn't take it anymore, he gripped his weapon as he felt his heel touch something. Another large stick.

He stepped over it and began to dash, and the hounds followed, foam streaming from their hungry mouths. His mind raced, his lungs burned and his muscles screamed for mercy.

He could feel the monster hounds behind him, almost right on his toes. The scientist quickly jumped over a stump and rolled to the ground, soft soil soiled his dress shirt and a hound came closer. Wilson had no choice.

His adam's apple bulged and stuck in his throat as he tossed his handmade spear, plunging it inside the hound's glowing green eye. It howled in pain and Wilson made a run for it, upon hearing more approach.

He cursed himself for not retrieving his spear, now what was he going to kill with? His lungs burnt more, more pain surged through his body as he raced through the green forest, below the orange sky. But, Wilson felt more orange than green, and a tint of brown and black, then heat.

The forest was now on fire. Wilson let out a yelp as he almost tripped and he stopped himself, letting the flames lick at his arms. The monsters, they were coming. He ran, faster, faster, faster. The barking became quieter, then silent. Gone.

They were, gone? Higgsbury couldn't stop now, he races faster until, he outran the fire and reached a large patch of black grass. He jumped off a short soft black moss cliff and rolled, and he found himself in a field of tall grass, trees still surrounded him.

Wilson looked back and gasped and wiped the dirt off his cheeks. His left hand reached his throat and he squeezed it to try to calm the pain from breathing too hard. The fire was getting stronger. He had to move, now.

...

Wilson wondered to himself. Why couldn't he have scones or tea? Or maybe pudding, or a slice of bread? Anything? At all?

It was silent once again, besides the crackle of the far away forest fire. It finally became nightfall and Wilson was without his weapon, and food. His stomach ached, he knew this was prone to happen.

He trudged through the dark forest, letting his shadow hand out free. It streamed midnight colors and disappeared into the night wind. Wilson sighed as he examined the nightmare apart of him.

"So, the man, the demon. He can control it?" Wilson shivered. "He killed those people. I know it."

He looked up and saw a starry night sky looking down at him. It was nothing like London. It felt like he was in a void, or a different planet. He possibly could be. Wilson had to admit, he was utterly confused. Awestruck and unable to come up with any theory. During his travel he tried to pinch himself, or at least stab his right shadow hand.

It didn't work.

Wilson trudged on for another hour and before he knew it. He saw life once more.

A voice.

"Oh, joy!" Wilson whispered happily. But what if it was the demon? He analyzed it. German? No, Russian! Low, male.

He turned his head to see a male indeed. Strong build, hearty, hefty, stripped body suit, curly black hair and mustache. Wilson was afraid for sure, but he had to trust. But maybe that was his problem, maybe he trusts people and things too much.

He emerged from the trees and the man caught his slim frame in the darkness.

It was silent for a moment. And the strongman, at least that's what Wilson thought he was, moved closer.

"Leetle man, are you, real?" His clammy palm rested on his shoulder.

"Are you?" Wilson's eyes dropped, he felt sleepy. This man didn't feel as menacing as the demon man. The strongman chuckled slightly and touched his face, his cheeks, his forehead.

"You're real leetle man!" Then he squeezed him hard, causing Wilson to gag. "You have made deal with devil hmm?"

Wilson was starting to believe that. "I believe so." Once he was let go, he held up his shadow arm. "Wilson Percival Higgsbury, G-gentleman scientist."


End file.
